River Sexy

Rationalization #4

Posted by on May 20, 2013

I’m back from my third rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. Unlike my first trip that resulted in three erotic essays and my second trip trip where I did erotic photo shoots, this voyage down wasn’t so sexy for me. I’ll admit this was more than a little disturbing since one of the many ways I describe my erotic memoir is river erotica (click here and here for a little tease). Normally the river seduces my man and consequently me, into this highly aroused, spiritually-awakened ecstatic state. Not this time.  And as you can imagine, I’ve been trying to figure out why. Rationalization #1: Maybe the river is just done with me.  Or perhaps I’m done with her. She always has scared me shitless. But, no.  No way. Rationalization #2: I was on vacation, so my sexy muses decided to take one too.  Quite possible. Rationalization #3: This year’s launch date was a month earlier than my other two trips so the weather was cooler. Plunging naked into water that was so cold it burned didn’t cultivate a sultry vibe. But I did it anyway. Rationalization #4: I wasn’t Blogging Me Sexy. I wasn’t consciously manifesting sexiness every week and writing it down for you. That must be it. Good thing I’m getting back at it. Sexy prod: Inspire me. Share one of your sensuous spring moments in the comments....

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Full Moon

Posted by on Jun 8, 2012

Erotic photo shoots are like running big whitewater: Scary to think about. Super exciting in the middle. Incredibly empowering by the end. I’ve done three of them so far. You’d think that since I’m an erotic essayist and somewhat of an exhibitionist at heart, erotic photos shoots would be a breeze for me. Au contraire. First I have to lock my Inner Catholic Girl in a confessional. Then I have to transcend that conditioned cultural voice that wrestles with not being fit or thin or young enough which we all know is bullshit but… still. It rants. I rave back. You can too. When the opportunity for an erotic photo shoot presents itself (it will), I encourage you to go for it. Tuck the pictures away if you don’t like them at first.  Because someday, like today for me, you will pull them out and think, Wow, I’m so glad I ditched that bikini on the beach. Courage begets courage. I need some right now. I have get to get sexy- psyched for a reading at the Seattle Erotic Arts Festival. So I’m posting this photo to manifest some boldness and get that juicy, carpe diem mojo flowing. Tell me about your fears, desires, experiences with erotic photos shoots in the comments and I’ll tell (and show) more of mine....

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Confluence

Posted by on Mar 7, 2012

After two weeks apart, my man is less than an hour away. I have to break the bad news before he gets here.  I dial his cell and when he picks up, I blurt it out  quickly, like pulling off a bandage. “I have not one, but two cold sores on my lower lip.” “Oh no,” he says. “It sucks,” I say. “Well, actually, no, it doesn’t suck.” We share a disappointed laugh. We both know this translates to no kissing and no oral sex. Our sexy reunion has just suffered a serious blow, or lack thereof. But my kayaker has been flirting with the Colorado River for the past twelve days.  He’s mastered the art of going with the flow. When he is above me, inside me, our foreheads touch instead of our lips. My third eye is pressed against his.  His brown eyes gaze down into mine with the intensity of a raptor. I can feel the presence, the power, of the river in him.  The two of them are flowing into me, between my thighs, between my brows. A confluence. My eyes want to close, pause, and shy away from the intensity. I won’t let them. I meet my man and the river head on and press my forehead even harder to his. I bring my blue irises mere millimeters from his that shimmer green with her at this proximity. They move slowly, rhythmically, into me. I feel like I could drown as my breath starts coming in short gasps. My body starts to quiver, arching my spine and driving them even deeper. There is no stopping it this time. My eyes roll back, like a breaking wave, under fluttering lids. Sexy Tip:  Explore the intensity of sustained eye contact while you are making...

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Class V Love

Posted by on Mar 3, 2012

Rivers have lots of class. I go for the cute, flirty Class II and III rivers.  My man can’t resist the femme fatale Class  IV-V types. He assured me that for experienced kayakers, paddling the Grand Canyon is big water, Class III.  No worries. At first  I imagined a cheerleader, one of those sweet ones with a ponytail and pom-poms. But it’s February and he went solo, in an extra-long, weighted down kayak. This cheerleader wears bright red lipstick, a matching thong and a leather jacket with a flask of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes in the inside pocket. The kind you would never trust alone with your boyfriend. So when I wake up from a nap to the sound of chirping crickets, I fly out of bed looking for my phone. Only one person has that ringtone. When I answer it, the sound of my man’s voice after not hearing it for two weeks is pure bliss. He’s off the river and heading home. The cell coverage isn’t great and doesn’t last long.  His voice sounds as smooth as river rock and happier than I’ve heard it in months.  The trip was mind blowing, he says.  He had the canyon to himself much of the time. “It was more of a Class IV-IV+ trip with that heavy, long boat,” he says.  I make out that he can’t wait to see me and something about a big juicy burger before we lose our connection. I go upstairs and light the candles on my meditation altar.  I’ve been meditating a lot since he left, trying to disperse degenerate cheerleader thoughts with my May he be safe mantra. But I didn’t fool my body.  I have a cold, two cold sores on my lower lip and a lovely display of acne across the right side of my face. I wondered if maybe I was just out of practice and had forgotten how to be alone in love. I’ve felt so damn vulnerable and raw this time He just confirmed why. I inhale deeply and sink fully into the realization that he is safe and coming home. I send out waves of gratitude as I exhale.  My shoulders melt down my back and I feel myself relax fully for the first time since he left. It’s as if I’ve taken my finger out of the dike. I fold forward and start sobbing. Loving a whitewater kayaker is so Class...

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Skin Deep

Posted by on Feb 16, 2012

I’m lying in bed curled up behind my man.  Okay, so I’m clinging. He’s leaving this morning for two weeks. I don’t have the skills to follow.  He’ll be paddling his fourteen-foot kayak solo through the Grand Canyon. He needs this river adventure like a cougar needs a kill. The past month he’s spent too many days in his basement office at a computer working on a scientific paper for possible publication. He’s been acting a lot like his study animal, a frustrated caged one. So I must admit, back in January I was looking forward to this day. Not anymore. This week as he pulled out his river gear and started organizing for his trip, he morphed back into my sexy, happy-go-lucky kayaker. The outdoor guide I fell in love with came back home just in time to leave. The front of my body is molded tight to the back of his. I trace the tip of my nose across the top ridge of his shoulder blade and find myself fascinated by his skin. I can’t believe I’ve been lying next to him for nine years and I am just now noticing this incredible organ that encases the spirit of the person I most love on this planet. I press my face into his upper back and can feel it breathing, cooling. I’m amazed by how alive it feels, how alive I want it to stay forever. I know it can’t, but please long enough to come back to me so I can have many more mornings of not taking this for granted and appreciating fully what I have and will some day inevitably lose. May that day be decades away. I inhale his scent as I brush my lips across his surface. I want to crawl in. Sexy Link:  Spend some time lounging around the Erotica Readers and Writers Association...

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